


Who Am I Without You?

by yellowmcfellow



Series: Angst [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ;), Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Communicating by a notebook lmao, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, George is deaf lmao, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean I guess the ending can be read as hopeful, M/M, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowmcfellow/pseuds/yellowmcfellow
Summary: They don't talk often. The only time they do talk is late at night before the rest of the world goes to sleep and early in the morning before the rest of the world wakes up, something that Dream supposes could be considered poetic. After that first night they talked, they set into an easy routine of banter and bickering, which suits Dream just fine. It reminds him of before the apocalypse when things were normal.He has grown attached. He knows that he has and he knows that George has and by now, he doesn't give a fuck. George is the best companion he could ask for, and, frankly, that's enough.Or, in an alternate universe, a deaf George and an untrusting Dream meet and team up, only to fall in love.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Angst [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216448
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61





	Who Am I Without You?

**Author's Note:**

> This is so much longer than my usual fics so I'm sorry if I rambled a bit :)
> 
> I'm just so worried everyone will get bored because it's so long lmao

Life is getting tiring.

It's started getting tiring for a while, though. It's only now that the mind-numbing sensation of hearing nothing has started to get to George, and, frankly, he's surprised he managed to get this far.

He also has no idea how he's still alive. Being deaf is hard enough, but being deaf during a zombie apocalypse is a death sentence. It would be easy, so easy, for a zombie to ambush him without him hearing it coming. 

He can still remember how it felt to hear, how it felt to hear his roommate's laugh, the strumming of fingers over guitar strings, the rustling of leaves - and zombie groans. The silence is deafening - a thought George finds quite funny. But it's true, and George wonders when the loneliness of not being able to hear talking, laughter, music, and all those sounds that he so foolishly overlooked when he could hear them, would finally finish him off and leave him insane. Like a zombie, just without the gorey process. 

George gets out of bed with considerable effort. At some point, he'd have to stop hiding in this godforsaken cottage and actually start scavenging like he used to - he's running low on supplies. 

George remembers the start of this apocalypse. He remembers how, despite the absolute madness of the whole situation, civilisation tried so hard to act as if everything was alright. It was crazy, hearing the screams and sounds of ripping flesh outside of your house whilst listening to the music on the radio, hearing the guttural moans of the dead get louder and louder whilst rewatching your favourite show. 

George supposes there are some upsides to being deaf. He can no longer hear the screams. 

He turns the radio on. He can't hear a word of it but he knows that it is still running - even now, society is trying to grasp onto the last remaining strands of normality in this fucked up situation. He moves around the house, cleaning up and checking on the dwindling supply of food. He knows he'll have to face it at some point. It's inevitable. 

There are several stores that haven't been looted around his house, and they aren't so far away, but it's still so risky when you can't hear. 

He's safe in this house. Anxious, but safe. He'd had the common sense to rig it up with traps and completely zombie-proof it at the start; it wasn't even that hard. It's not like zombies have brains. 

He also knows he'll probably be fine, as long as he doesn't run into any hordes. Stragglers are okay. Zombies are slow and it's easy to skirt around them. Even groups of four or five would be manageable, as long as he manages to stay above them; zombies can't climb. But hordes, hordes are terrible. They clog up the streets and within them are smarter zombies like Runners and Brutes. Runners can climb and, as the name suggests, run; Brutes wield lethal clubs. Not to mention the smell, although George supposes that would be the least of your problems if you were to run into a horde. It would be extremely difficult to survive - not impossible, but difficult. And that's with all your senses intact. 

But brooding over it would only make him even more nervous. He has to face the fact that he is in desperate need of supplies, and the only place he can get them from are the unlooted stores scattered across the country. Thankfully, George lives in the countryside - had it been the city, he'd be much worse off. Not only are there far more zombies in the city, but there would also be competitors for the dwindling supply of... well, supplies. 

George sighs. He regrets more than anything the way that he'd gone deaf. It was so stupid. It's his own fault that he's deaf, and that's the worst part about it. He really shouldn't have angered that gang, should've recognised he'd been fighting a losing battle. It was only a first aid kit - useful, but not essential. He should've realised that he wouldn't get it. But instead that one member had bought out fucking grenades (where did they get grenades from? George had been struggling to find food like granola bars, let alone explosives) and had thrown it at him. Thank the god George didn't believe in that he'd been in an empty street; if he'd been in a building, there would've been no way he would've survived. But it doesn't matter - he's a dead man walking now. 

The funniest part about it was that everyone in the scuffle except George had died and George had gotten the first-aid kit from their bodies. 

He glares at it now. It's sitting in a kitchen cabinet. He'd had to use a few of the gauze rolls and one instant cold pack for the aftermath of the explosion for the, thankfully, not very severe burns on his arms and back. He remembers it all too well, sitting in a desolate street whilst trying so hard to ignore the smell of charred flesh, wrapping the gauze around his arms and wincing, putting the ice-cold pack on his back because he couldn't reach with the bandages. All the while with a ringing in his ears that even then he had dreaded.

He had thought it would've gone away, hoped it would've gone away, but now he wishes for it back, because once the ringing had left the silence had come. 

But he hadn't had to use the first-aid kit afterwards, and now it just sits in the cabinet collecting dust. He'd traded his hearing for a kit that he hasn't even had to use. 

George finally pulls himself out of his reverie. He grabs his knife and slides it into his belt, but then yanks it out a second later and keeps it tightly in his grasp - better safe than sorry. He then puts on his special scavenging boots, brings a backpack, and shrugs a heavy coat around himself, managing to convince himself that the coat would, if he did have to fight some zombies, somewhat take the brunt of the force. 

He stomps to the door and swings it open - even now expecting the familiar click of the lock sliding out of place and the swish of the door - and steps outside for the first time since he'd gone deaf. 

It's eerily barren outside. By now, he's not sure why he's surprised. Everyone would've moved inland towards the city, where groups were forming. George had heard of those groups. It was said that there were hundreds, maybe even thousands of people working together in the city, all supporting each other, and all with the best supplies. A glimmer of hope for many, a sign that maybe civilisation could rebuild itself. George would be tempted to move as well, but his last run-in with people didn't turn out the best. Obviously. 

He walks through the blood-spattered streets. It's all dried, but it still gives him chills. But, if the zombie apocalypse did anything to society, it's that it taught them how to blissfully ignore their surroundings, and that's what he does now. 

He doesn't stop until he finds what he's looking for. It's a supermarket. Not too big, and definitely abandoned, but it looks untouched. He'd be able to survive off of the supplies he'd find in here for a while. 

He walks inside, ignoring how he can't hear the clack of his boots against the cold marble. He browses through the food, eschewing the food he knows would be mouldy and rotten for dry foods with a long shelf life, such as granola bars and dried fruits. It's a bit of a jackpot, actually, as he finds that this store seemed to have specialised in dried fruits and nuts back when it was in business. He also finds bottled water and shoves it all into his backpack. Water wasn't much of a problem because of the rainwater collecting system he'd had even before this apocalypse, but still, bottled water is cleaner. 

He exits the supermarket feeling happy. He hadn't even completely emptied it yet; he could go back and refill for a second time. 

Then he stops because there is a man sitting on the pavement looking right at him.

* * *

Life has gotten tiring. 

Dream knows he's being impulsive, knows that he's being foolish. But at the same time, life isn't worth living in this hellhole. Which is why he seats himself on the pavement and waits. 

To be honest, the countryside probably isn't the best place to make your suicide attempt. There aren't many zombies around, so it's difficult to get killed by one. Understandably. He doesn't know why he doesn't move towards the city - if the travel doesn't kill him, the hordes would. But then again, he's tired and he doesn't have the energy to go that far to die. And so he makes do with folding his hands neatly into his lap and waiting. 

He hears the sound of footsteps and a door being opened before he actually sees the man who appears. He sighs. Just his luck that he's come across a human instead of a zombie. It'll only make the process more difficult. 

Dream reaches blindly for his knife. His hands brush over it a few seconds later, and he brandishes it in the direction of the stranger. However, instead of going away, the stranger moves closer.

"What are you doing?" The stranger asks bluntly. He sounds like he hasn't used his vocal cords in a while. His voice is scratchy and hoarse. To be fair, it's not like you'd be doing much talking isolated in an apocalypse. But still. 

"What do you think?" Dream snaps as, to his dismay, the stranger sits down beside him. "Go away," he adds. 

"I can't hear you," the man says brightly. Too brightly. Dream can hear the note of regret underneath the cheerful tone. "You're deaf?" He starts, but then realises that he can't hear that either. 

He rolls his eyes instead, hoping the stranger would get the message and fuck off. When he doesn't get any vocal reaction, he frowns and turns away.

"Yes, I'm deaf," the man says as if reading Dream's mind. 

Dream doesn't want this man to be here. He wants him to go away because he knows he'll only get attached to him and, inevitably, one of them is going to die and the other would die as well, due to grief or another fucking zombie. Either way, if he gets into any sort of relationship with this man, they'd both end up dead. Although it's not like he's opposed to dying. He just doesn't want to drag anyone with him when he eventually kicks the bucket. 

"Fuck off," he mutters, giving his knife one last threatening wave. 

The man doesn't fuck off. Instead, he says, "I have a notebook and a pen. We can communicate like that if you want." 

There's the sound of rustling as the stranger digs around in his backpack. Before Dream can even react, he gets a notebook and a pen shoved into his hands. The man mutters something and then flips it open to a page. Dream raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

_Fuck off_ , he writes somewhat shakily onto the notebook.

Whatever he was expecting, he wasn't expecting laughter. But laughter is what he hears, a jovial sound bursting out. He can hear the surprise in it as well, and he knows it's not surprise at what Dream's written but surprise that he's laughing at it. 

"Not too bad," the man says. "It's a bit of an awkward arrangement, but it'll work. What's your name?" 

Instead of writing his name, he writes, _What the fuck do you want?_

All he wants is to go back to his waiting. For this man to go away, to leave him in peace. Because he knows that he will like this man a lot if he's given the chance. So he hardens up his heart, allowing no emotion to escape. The last thing he needs right now is to go soft. After all, the entire reason that he's managed to survive this fucking long - a fact that even he finds surprising - is that he's merciless. 

And then his hard heart shatters when the stranger says in a soft, sad voice, "I want company." 

So, instead of standing up and stumbling away, he writes, _Company?_

The man says, "Yeah. I'm tired, y'know? I'm so tired of this blinding silence, and I'm tired of going nowhere and seeing no one. I don't know. I just... think about it this way. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, right? It increases both of our chances of survival and... it would be fun. Almost normal, to have company. God, I am just _so tired_."

Dream pauses. Then he writes, _What if I don't want increased chances of survival?_

The stranger falls silent. Dream sighs and moves to close the notebook. He hands it to the man and stands up shakily, grasping onto his knife. He knows that he'll return another day for another attempt. Another attempt to end his own life. But he gets stopped by the stranger, and he frowns. Why can't this man just leave him be? 

But he knows part of him doesn't want this man to leave. Part of him is scared, he's fucking scared about everything that has happened and he's scared of what will happen. He's scared of death but he's even more scared of life. He's scared of the afterlife but he's even more scared of the prospect that there is nothing after death. And so, despite hating this man because he knows he'll like him, he allows himself to be stopped. 

He doesn't ask, but the man says, "I'm George." 

Without thinking, Dream reaches for the notebook and feels it handed to him. 

He writes one word into it. _Dream._

* * *

_What's it like being deaf?_

George leans over to see what Dream is writing. It's been a few weeks since they teamed up, and George finds a few things out about him in that time. Firstly, Dream's like a mask. He lets no emotion show, despite George's best efforts. Secondly, he's suicidal. George suspected as much when he found Dream on the pavement (who would just sit idly on a pavement in the middle of an apocalypse?) but it was confirmed when George found him outside a few days ago preparing to jump off a building. He only just managed to convince him out of it. 

They'd been travelling towards the city for the past few weeks, against George's will. Dream argued that there are more supplies there (not true) and that there are a lot more shelters to hide in. George was unmoved until Dream broke it to him that at some point they would've looted all the stores in their neighbourhood and they would die a slow, starving death if they didn't move. 

They're on the outskirts of the city now, in fact. They're sitting on top of a building, looking at the skyline. It's the first time they've really relaxed and enjoyed each other's company since they met. 

George swings his legs as he contemplates the question. "It's... strange. I guess I was, and still am, just really surprised that the blast took away my hearing permanently. Like, you'd obviously expect to lose a little of your hearing but I just went completely deaf. Sometimes I can still hear the ghosts of ringing, or just... _sounds_ in my ears, but I know that it's not really there.

"It's also really strange talking because I can't hear my own voice. Like, I know what I'm saying and I know I'm saying the correct words, it's just confusing sometimes. I've gotten somewhat used to it but it's still so frightening, it's so strange that I can't hear my own words. The only thing I can hear is my own thoughts, and even then they aren't that loud." 

Dream smirks. _Are you calling yourself dumb?_ he writes, and George rolls his eyes. 

They (or just George) fall silent for a while. George swings his legs some more. They're all alone. Part of him enjoys the solitude. It's so peaceful, in a strange way. 

Then Dream writes, _In a fucked-up way, the view is beautiful._

George nods. It _is_ beautiful. In a fucked-up way, but also in a totally justifiable way. The sun is setting and it casts a glowing orange light onto everything, making it all look like it's on fire. It's hazy, and... well... the zombies in the distance only accentuate the skyline. George imagines that if he could, this would be the scene he would paint. 

Beautiful decay. 

"Did you have someone before me?" He asks suddenly, crossing his legs. Dream dives into his notebook again, and George watches the words appear. _Not during the zombie apocalypse, no. I moved out of my parents' house when I was 18. I-_

Dream pauses, but George knows what he's going to write. _I hope they're okay_. Hollow words, because they both know the truth. That they're probably not okay, that they're probably zombies somewhere. Alive, but dead.

"How did we get so fucked up?" George wonders, holding a hand up to the sky and marvelling in the way the sun outlined it in white, like liquid gold.

Beauty in small things. 

_Since the world got fucked up, I suppose_ Dream writes, then underlines the word "world" a few times, for some inexplicable reason. Then, _Did you have someone? Before me._

"I did," George says, and, for the first time, allows himself to remember. It was his roommate. They were close, toxically close. Sometimes, he remembers how his roommate's laugh sounded like. How his roommate used to play the guitar. His roommate was the musician, and he was the logician. Together, they were a great team. And then they got split up and George hasn't seen him since. But his roommate - he's smart. George doesn't allow himself to dwell on the thought that he died. Because he _didn't_. His roommate was so smart. _Is_ so smart. 

"His name was Will. Wilbur. He taught me how to play the guitar, actually. We got split up a long while ago. He was a fucking madman, but he was great," George continues. He smiles at the memories of his mad roommate. He remembers Wilbur's antics, remembers Wilbur yelling at the zombies, "Come at me, bitch!" before bashing their brains out with a tactical fucking shovel. He was an absolute madman, and George misses him. 

Dream sighs. George can't hear him, but he knows that he does. 

"Wilbur gave me a guitar, actually. I still have it. I haven't played it in a while... obviously. It's stupid that I have an object that I can't even use. It just takes up space, but I can't get rid of it." 

_Sentimentality's the biggest killer_ , Dream agrees. Then, _I was wondering what you were doing lugging that huge case around whenever we travelled. Was that the guitar?_

"Yes," George sighs. He uncrosses his legs and watches the sun as the last of it sinks below the earth, like a big yolk sliding off of a pan. Twilight starts to settle in. "It was just slowing me down, but I can't get rid of it. I think you understand."

Dream doesn't respond to him. Instead, he writes, _At some point one of us is going to die. Are you really willing to take that risk?_

George chuckles. It's a slightly manic chuckle. The madness of this situation is really starting to get to him. "What risk, Dream? The risk of living a little? Because I fully know that we're going to die. Might as well have a fun time before we go, right?" He pauses. "Do you really regret your decision to team up with me that much? Because if you really want to, we can still split up. I just... I know you probably don't feel the same way, but my time with you has been great. It's really grounded me. It reminded me of the reality we used to live." 

Dream writes, _No, I don't regret it, and that's the scariest part about it. But in the end, this is only going to make things more difficult for both of us._

"Oh, Dream," George replies softly. "What's life if not difficult?"

* * *

A few months later, Dream wakes up to find George sitting with the guitar in his lap, strumming it softly. A whimsical and slightly nostalgic look is frozen upon his face as he plays notes he cannot hear. 

Dream pretends to be asleep. He expects George to stop, but he doesn't. In fact, he even starts to sing, so softly that Dream has to strain his ears to hear. It's not quite in the right pitch but it's gentle and sweet. A small smile finds its way onto Dream's face, despite his best efforts. 

He knows that he's in too deep. He knows that he should go, that he should leave before he gets too attached. But then he decides to banish that thought for the time being and relaxes to the sound of humming and guitar strings.

* * *

"You're running out of pages, Dream," George says one day, peering over his shoulder. Dream shrugs him away. _Not really_ , he writes. _Besides, I'm sure we can find more. It's not like notebooks are in demand nowadays._

"Where would we get it from?" George wonders. 

_There are plenty of bookstores and stationery stores around, George. As I said, it's not like there will be people scrambling to get notebooks_ , Dream responds drily. 

They don't talk often; there are obviously some difficulties that come with having to write down everything. The only time they do talk is late at night before the rest of the world goes to sleep and early in the morning before the rest of the world wakes up, something that Dream supposes could be considered poetic. After that first night they talked, they set into an easy routine of banter and bickering, which suits Dream just fine. It reminds him of before the apocalypse when things were normal. 

He has grown attached. He knows that he has and he knows that George has and by now, he doesn't give a fuck. George is the best companion he could ask for, and, frankly, that's enough. 

George does have some downsides, though. He considers himself a logician but they both know that Dream is the logician in this relationship. George... is a dreamer. And there is nothing wrong with that, but it's quite the opposite of a logician. 

Dream also finds that George has an unhealthy attraction to that damn guitar, which he hasn't even played since that night Dream woke up to. 

Sometimes, Dream wishes that he plays more. 

Dream is fully aware that he is flawed as well. He is like a mask too much, a mask that doesn't let any emotion slip through. He knows that he pisses George off sometimes with his indifference and Dream gets pissed off about George's sentimentality. They are opposites in that way. George feels too much and he feels too little. Together, they are perfectly flawed. 

George is fairly good at killing zombies, though, and that's what matters. They've lucky enough not to come across any hordes for the time being (knock on wood), and the stragglers they make quick work of. Dream is starting to enjoy himself. 

He turns to look at George. To truly look at him. George is beautiful, and he knows it. Dream had never come across a beautiful man before he met George, but George is the epitome of beauty, with pale skin with shadows like bruises and big brown eyes. He's so small as well, Dream feels like he could crush him. 

George raises a quizzical eyebrow at Dream and Dream stops staring. "What are you looking at? Actually, I know. It's my beautiful face. You just can't get enough of me," George teases, and Dream rolls his eyes. _You aren't even wrong_ , he thinks.

* * *

George doesn't know when he fell in love with Dream, but he's in love with him now and it's a problem because he knows it will only get in their way. He doesn't even know why he's in love with Dream, Dream and his jaded personality, Dream the enigma. _Why was he looking at me?_

Dream is attractive, and he knows it. George had never really thought that before, but he does now as he studies Dream. He has golden skin and golden eyes. He's so big as well, George feels like he could be crushed by him. 

Dream isn't looking at him. Dream is looking at his notebook with an unreadable expression - he's always so unreadable - but he doesn't make an attempt to write anything. He didn't see George looking at him. 

"We should talk more," George blurts. Dream looks up at him in vague surprise and then writes, _We talk plenty. And it's not like we can talk while walking or killing zombies - I can't just have my head bent in a notebook._

George frowns. "I know. But like, actually talk. We just sort of sit in silence... I mean, there's nothing wrong with that, but we're just wasting our time." 

_What would we talk about?_ Dream asks, but George knows it's just to humour him. 

"I don't know," George responds. "Small talk. How our day has been going. How _we've_ been going."

A week ago, George had woken up to a nightmare. It had been the first nightmare he'd had in a while and it was about how he lost his hearing, except this time he'd died instead. He must've woken Dream up with his screaming because the next thing he knew Dream was right next to him stroking his hair and saying soothing words that George couldn't hear. Dream had looked so vulnerable right then that George didn't even bother to tell him that he couldn't hear him. 

And then Dream slipped inside George's sleeping bag and cuddled him until he fell asleep. George knew better than to think of it as a romantic gesture - knowing Dream, he doubts he is in love with him - but it still made him feel so safe. 

But it did surprise him that he had a nightmare in the first place. He didn't tell Dream about what his nightmare was about; in fact, when they got up in the morning Dream calmly disentangled himself from George's limbs and gets up like this is a daily occurrence, and they didn't talk about it since. 

So it surprises him when Dream writes, _Have you had any more nightmares?_

"No," George admits, and it's the truth. "Thanks, by the way. For comforting me when I woke up." 

Dream smirks. _It was just so that I could go back to sleep again. It's not like I could go to sleep with you screaming in my ear._

George rolls his eyes and huffs. He wouldn't put that past Dream but for some reason, he doesn't think that was the case. _Or maybe it's just your love with him making you imagine things_ , he thinks. 

"Will you... will you do it again? If I have another nightmare?" George asks softly, and Dream nods, his smirk fading into a genuine smile. Then he writes, _actually, only if I'm feeling like it_ , and George laughs.

* * *

Dream goes out one day. He doesn't tell George where - in fact, he leaves before George even wakes up, which sort of pisses George off. So without Dream there, there isn't much for George to do. He's so used to Dream's company. 

He isn't that worried. Dream is smart, he wouldn't die. Would he? 

But in the meantime, George has time to kill. He finds himself lifting the guitar out of its dusty case and giving it an experimental strum. He almost expects to hear a sound, and when, of course, there is none, it kills his enthusiasm so much he considers putting the guitar back, but for the sake of Wilbur, he doesn't. 

He lifts it into his arms and a slow smile creeps onto his face. He gives it another strum. 

He's almost having fun with the guitar when one of the strings snap. He pulls a face and sighs. He doesn't have any more strings - nor does he have anything else to do, other than sit around and wait. 

George sighs again, this time considerably louder. He digs into his backpack, looking for something, anything, to do. When he inevitably finds nothing, he just pulls out a slightly dusty granola bar and snacks on it. It's flavourless and he's not that proud of himself for just eating because he's bored but he doesn't have anything else to do. 

The granola bar only provides a few seconds of entertainment, though, and he finds himself just as bored as before he ate it, only now sans granola bars to eat.

Dream returns a few hours later, finding a fuming George pacing the room in dramatic despair. 

"Where the fuck did you go?" George snaps, glaring as Dream strides into the shelter with a vague smile on his face. Dream ignores him as he takes out his notebook. _Guess what I found_. 

"You almost gave me a heart attack. What if you died? Why the fuck did you leave?" George continues. Dream looks sheepish. _Sorry. I went looking for supplies._

"Without me?" George seethes. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

 _I'm sorry. But I have something to make up for it_. 

"It better be good," George grouches. Dream's eyes light up and he grins. He holds up a bar of chocolate.

George hadn't eaten chocolate since the beginning of the apocalypse and he suspects Dream hasn't either.

"I don't like chocolate," George tries in a last-ditch attempt to be mad, but he's already reaching for it. Dream grins.

They're sitting on the floor splitting the chocolate and Dream has never looked prettier. His hair is mussed up and his eyes are bright and he's grinning, chocolate stained fingers nimbly splitting another piece. He offers George another square.

George's anger has already melted away with the chocolate and Dream looks so pretty so George blurts, "I want to kiss you right now."

Dream looks so surprised that George would laugh if he wasn't so mortified, but he only has time to think, _fuck maybe I shouldn't have said that_ before Dream's kissing him. George lets out a startled sound and then kisses him back and revels in the warmth of Dream. He tastes of chocolate and bliss and, for a few moments, George forgets about everything.

* * *

"What are we?" George asks a few weeks later, Dream's head in his lap. He plays with the soft hair and Dream lets out a contented sigh.

 _What do you want us to be?_ Dream responds, and George frowns down at him.

"You know what I want us to be, Dream. But are we?"

 _Sure. If you want to._ Dream writes, and beams up at him. _Here, I'll write it down. George is my boyfriend. Happy?_

George smiles. "Yeah," he says and leans down to kiss him.

* * *

"Fuck," George whispers. There is so much blood. There is too much blood, and it's spreading. It's soaked in his shirt, embedded in the creases of his hands, mixed in with his hair - how the fuck did it get in his hair? - and George regrets everything.

"I told you. I told you," Dream tells him, voice slurring. George can't hear him but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was a bit of an idiot, yeah?"

George tries to staunch the blood but there is so much and it won't stop coming, it's not stopping. "Fuck. You can't leave, Dream. Don't leave me! I don't have anyone, please don't leave me. We were just getting started! You can't go, not now."

He can't hear Dream but enough is communicated in Dream's bleary smile. "I'm sorry, George. I'm sorry. I love you. I love you, I'm sorry I never got to tell you. Hey, I told you, right? Funny, huh. I'm always right-" Dream coughs, and George can't hear him but he still cries and holds him tighter.

"No, it's fine. It's fine, you're not going to die. You're not dying! You're Dream, you don't die! Besides, we had so much more to do! We were going to explore the city, right? You can't leave! We're just getting started, now's not the time to die! Please don't leave me, please. I can't lose you. Stop speaking! Please, you need to rest, you'll get better! You'll get better!"

"I won't, George, but it's okay. You're okay. I love you. I'm-" Dream struggles to breathe, and George weeps because he knows that Dream won't get better, and how the fuck will he live without the person he is living for?

"Don't forget to... to kill me, okay? I don't want to come back as one of them, I'd hate to come back as one of them. Hey, it's practice, right? You can practice your- your zombie killing skills. Okay? Don't forget to kill me," Dream says and struggles to lean up for one last kiss, but he tastes wrong, he tastes of blood.

"I love you, Dream, I'm sorry I didn't say it before now. I just wish we had more time," George cries, but Dream's already gone, and George knows what he has to do.

He looks away when he does it but it doesn't make it any easier, and now his clothes are covered in Dream's brains as well as his blood but he doesn't care, he only hugs Dream's corpse to his body and cries because it's already going cold and George's clothes are already going stiff from the blood and Dream isn't here, this corpse isn't Dream.

The survival group finds him bent over a fresh mound of dirt with nothing but a guitar on his back and a notebook he doesn't seem to want to let go of.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are pog :D


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